Watching, Dancing, and Remembering
by ac-the-brain-supreme
Summary: Watching is important for understanding. Dancing is important for life. Remembering is important for sanity. All are important for love.
1. Watching

Watching is important to know and fully understand not only your surroundings, but others, and even yourself. For instance, if you like watching a certain type of television show--like, say a science-fiction-themed television show or movie--it tells a lot about who you are and what you are like. Chances are, the person watching a science-fiction television show would not like the same things a person who watches a teen drama.

Watching is important to science. Observations lead to questions, questions lead to experiments, experiments lead to answers, answers lead to more knowledge on the universe we live in.

Watching can also be an invasion of privacy. Watching at the wrong time, with the wrong person, in the wrong place, and you could be faced with harsh punishment, anger, maybe even fear. It can cause one to become an outcast, a villain.

Watching can be the thing that brings people together and tear them apart.

Watching can be the catalyst to action.

Watching was how he learned of his existance.

(----------)

Gabriel Gray had grown up the only child in a two-bedroom apartment. A child of a shot gun marriage. The son of a watchmaker who abandoned his wife and 19-year-old son before said son could go off to college and break free from the "time-honored tradition" that was his father's shop.

Gabriel Gray had grown up doing nothing but fixing clocks, reading, and watching others. When he was child, he would watch from the sandbox, only an arm's length away from his fidgety mother. He would desire to play with the children on the play gym, but it was too dangerous. His mother worried over his "fragile" bones and his "delicate" skin, insisting that the sandbox was the best and safest place to play. When he was in school, he would try he would stand by the windows and watch the other children play the games he never learned how to play while the nun-teachers made him clap erasers because of an act that he did not commit. When he was an adolescent and young teenager, he would watch from behind a book, watching the bullies who stole his money from him as they sat laughing with their friends and the girls who crushed on them. And when he was a young man, he would watch from a dark corner in disgusted pleasure as the wrestling team practiced. With their tight unitards and their grunts and their sweat-sheened bodies and...

And as an adult, he would sit behind the counter of his father's shop and watch the people pass by, not looking at him, not giving the dark little shop a second thought. Not caring about the lonely man who sat inside.

(----------)

Gabriel Gray always watched.

It was Sylar who always acted on the impulses that Gabriel had.

Gabriel Gray was always the lonely watchmaker with the thick glasses and the ugly sweater-vests and the over-protective mother and the unsupportive father and the crappy life.

It was Sylar who was always the one to go to the clubs, wearing tight-fitting clothes and who had the toothy grin that attracted both sexes and who had no past to hold him back.

But it was Gabriel Gray who first saw and fell in love with Mohinder Suresh.

(----------)

Gabriel Gray had never been fond of coffee shops. But he had run out at home that morning and decided that going out to the grocery store would take too much time. He had just walked in when he saw him and where Gabriel first felt his heartbeat speed up and slow down and break at the exact same time. Gabriel wanted to shout for joy and praise the God he had given up on many, many years ago and at the same time mourn for the fact that he would never be worth enough to even have a conversation with him. He wanted to touch that smooth coffee skin and smell those black curls, but at the same time wanted to avoid the man altogether.

He'd never felt this way before.

And he didn't even know the man's name.

He stuck around, sitting at a table, staring, watching, wondering, until finally the most beautiful name he might have ever heard--Mohinder--was called and the Indian man recieved his drink.

(----------)

Gabriel Gray returned to that coffee shop everyday. After a week, he figured out the pattern of his obsession.

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Mohinder came to the coffee shop between seven and nine o'clock in the morning. Tuesday and Thursday he came around three in the afternoon. Saturday and Sunday he didn't even bother to come. Gabriel followed this schedule to the very letter. He figured that one day, he would scrounge up enough courage to talk to that beautiful man.

He never could.

(----------)

Gabriel Gray created Sylar, at first, as a way to not be Gabriel Gray.

Sylar was everything Gabriel Gray wasn't: confident, attractive, open, unafraid, mysterious, exotic. He was, in Gabriel's mind, the perfect man.

After a while, he decided that a perfect man could easily capture the heart of another.

(----------)

Gabriel Gray only acknowledged his religion around Mohinder. Praying to God that he would turn and say something to him; that Mohinder would see him, blush, and feel the instant attraction that Gabriel had felt that first day. But again, God prooved why Gabriel had given up his roots when he discovered that no matter how good of a person he was, he was going to go to hell.

(----------)

Gabriel Gray discovered he had a chance at happiness the day he heard Mohinder arguing with someone over the phone.

"I don't want to go!" Pause. "Because dance clubs are completely useless! Who would want to go to a dark, crowded room that smells of body odor and move around like you're sexually harrassing the three people next to you?" Pause. "Of course you would." Pause and a sigh. "I know you guys want to do something nice for me since it's my birthday, but I would rather we not go someplace so...impersonal." A longer pause. "What do you mean I have no fun in my life? I have tons of fun!" Pause. "That is a regular kind of--" Pause. "I do have soul and it is full of joy and elation and fun and--" Angered pause. "Fine, I'll come. But I'm not going to like it."

Gabriel had listened intently to the entire conversation. As Mohinder was writting down the location and time of the apparent birthday celebration, Gabriel got up and walked over, under the guise of having to get a napkin. Gabriel was able to look over Mohinder's shoulder. The words were in a different written language, but Mohinder had been repeating what was being told to him.

Gabriel walked back to his seat, heart pumping like the stereos he was going to be surrounded by that night.


	2. Dancing

_Hello this is a fun little thing I did for the Back To Mylar Ficathon on LJ. People liked it there, so it's migrating over to fanfiction. Hope you guys enjoy!_

**ac-the-brain-supreme does not own Heroes. If she did, there would be lots of Mylar and Mott goodness.**

* * *

Dancing is one of the few international things. Every culture does it, in some way or another. Some dance by the tribal thumps of ceremonial drums. Some skip to the joyous whistles of flutes. Some twist passionately to the thrums of a guitar. Whatever the moves by whatever music, the dancing is almost always the same: to celebrate, to mourn; to attract, to repel; to tell a story, to make a wish.

In the animal world, dancing is sometimes used to attract a mate. From the graceful crane, dipping and flapping, to butterflies, whose flipping and clutching to its partner creates the next generation of fluttering gems. But the one animal who practices this type of dancing most often is the human being. Huge buildings are dedicated to this act of sensual movements, of finding the perfect mate for the night or for the rest of your life. Music is made for people that gets them to start dancing. It's a talent, it's an art form.

It's how they met.

(----------)

Somehow, his heart is in perfect synch with the bass trembling the floor he is standing on. He knows that his heart is not the only one experiencing this change. But he wonders if any of these other women or men are having their dance partners slide their hands up their stomach, then back down to the waist band of their pants or skirts. He wonders if he's the only one this stranger has ever touched like this.

Mohinder looks up into the brown-black eyes of the man he is dancing with. There is something in them. Something that looks like lust, but not quite. Is it the alcohol that is dimming them? Has this man even had anything to drink? Mohinder has, but he's sure that not even half a beer is enough to impair judgment.

Mohinder's hand slides down his dance partner's neck. The way they're dancing is a little strange: Mohinder's back is to the stranger, swaying back and forth while the stranger holds Mohinder by the waist, hips moving forward, bumping against Mohinder in an attractive, arousing way. Mohinder moans softly when he thinks of how they are dancing. He needs to remember to thank his friends for dragging him out of his apartment for once in his life, for taking him to this dance club, for encouraging him to dance with this handsome stranger. Mohinder leans completely on the stranger, feeling his body mold against the man behind him.

The stranger leans down a little, his mouth right next to Mohinder's ear. "You feel just as beautiful as you look."

Mohinder doesn't know why, but that statement makes something click in his mind. In less than a second, Mohinder's turned around, hands deep in the stranger's short hair, lips and body pressed as hard as possible against the man's. His partner wraps his arms around Mohinder's waist again. One hand finds a patch of warm, exposed skin and sits there, enjoying it.

Maybe half a beer does impair one's judgment.

(----------)

It's almost like a dance, how they get to the bedroom.

At first, Mohinder is leading. Leading his dancing partner to his apartment, because it's closer. Leading him through the door before he finds himself pressed against the nearest wall. Lips and tongue attack Mohinder's, all the while the Indian man is smiling. He's never felt so alive.

Mohinder finally regains control, pushing the stranger onto the couch, then climbing on top of him to continue their kissing. Now, their hands dance across each other. To get off shirts, to unbutton buttons, to get the other naked first; to touch warm skin, to feel the other's hair, to gain the control that has been temporarily thrown as a free-for-all.

The stranger finally gains control, pushing Mohinder into a sitting position against the arm of the couch. They stay like that: Mohinder defeated, the stranger leaning over him. They are both panting, but only the stranger seems to be conscious of what is happening. Mohinder had gotten lost in the excitement, the movements, the leading, the being led. It's only when the stranger's hands are sliding down his sides that Mohinder realizes what's going on, what may be happening soon. He hears a smile and a chuckle, then feels the stranger move closer to him and whisper, "You're beyond beautiful, Mohinder. You're perfection."

Mohinder wonders where this stranger learned his name.

(----------)

The dance underneath the sheets, in the bed, has to be the most exhilirating.

The stranger is gentle, but fierce and rough. Cautious, but risky.

Mohinder can't describe it, can't even think about it. Whatever this man is doing, whoever he is, he's just about the best damn fuck Mohinder's had in a long, long time. Maybe ever, even. He makes Mohinder's skin burn with each breath, makes his head fall back whenever he touches his hair, makes him moan with each bite. And when it's all over, he makes Mohinder want more.

(----------)

The awkward dancing around the loud creaks in the floorboards the next morning is probably the most painful thing he has to go through.

The stranger is the first to wake up the next morning, eyes foggy before finally focusing on the Indian beauty he had gone home with. The first thing he notices is the relaxed expression on Mohinder's face, followed closely by the scent of his hair. It smells warm, soft, and like love. Or at least an incredible substitute. He knows it's the incredible substitute, but Gabriel Gray has found a way to dance around the truth and interpret things however the hell he wants.

* * *

_That's it. There may be a "sequel" on it's way. I have nothing to do this weekend, so maybe I'll write it then. _

_Later!_

_--ac-the-brain-supreme_


	3. Remembering

_Hello! This is A.C.-chan, delivering a nice little ficcy-poo to you lovely readers!_

_Now, this is sad as shit, so if you had a pretty good day/are in a good mood and don't want to ruin it, run away. NOW. But if you are emo and need more material to proove that life sucks, you are very much welcome._

_Anyway, please enjoy!_

**ac-the-brain-supreme does not own Heroes. If she did, Maya would have died...and stayed dead.**

* * *

Remembering is important in the development of human history. For hundreds of years, before the written word and books and printed material, stories were passed down from generation to generation by oral tradition. If one forgot a story, it would remain unknown to whomever they wanted to tell the story to. If an entire group forgets a story, than it dies in that circle of people.

Remembering is also a thing based on one's perspective. People remember things differently. A fight with someone's friend can differ between the two. You could say that your friend was being ridiculous over the seemingly minor detail that you said was a seemingly minor detail and that statement led to the fight; your friend could say that you were being inconsiderate of their feelings and purposely being a horrible person.

How one remembers or is remembered comes after the fact. Many of the founding fathers of America were, to the British, traitors, treacherers, and even terrorists. If the Revolution had not gone the way they had planned, the present-day Americans would have probably thought the same. Instead, they are reveled as heroes, their misgivings forgotten in the pages of the textbooks that no one really reads anyway.

Remembering also keeps one sane. A person who forgets something about themselves or another person is looked down on with pity and sorrow, while they often struggle with the idea that they aren't as sharp, that they are older, that they might even be suffering from an illness that will slowly deteriorate their mind, making them forget everyone and everything they had ever cared about. Such a terrifying thought doesn't make them feel better and could, quite possibly and under the right circumstances, make their condition worse.

Remembering is one of the few things that unite humans to their animal brethren.

Remembering is what keeps the past alive.

Remembering is what brought them back together.

And what led to the end.

(----------)

Mohinder woke up alone in a bed covered in rumpled sheets. He had looked around, lazily and curiously. When he saw no one else in the room, he got up and pulled on a pair of boxers. They were his, the pair from the night before. Mohinder walked out and into the kitchen. Somehow, he had imagined the man standing over the stove, a skillet in hand, pancakes and butter and syrup on the table.

Mohinder was surprised to find no one there.

(----------)

Gabriel couldn't keep his hands from shaking. He had been with Mohinder. He had touched him, stood next to him, felt his skin, his hair, heard him scream and moan.

And he had caused those sounds.

He had been the one to give the man he loved the sensation of pleasure.

He had done it. He had done it, he had done it, he had finally done it.

Gabriel leaned so far back on his stool that he fell onto the floor. But it didn't matter to him. He was too busy being happy and celebrating his victories.

Gabriel closed his eyes, smiling. He needed to see Mohinder again. He wanted to see Mohinder again so badly.

(----------)

Mohinder couldn't shake the feeling of the man from the night at the club for a week. Whenever he was alone, he could feel the stranger's breath on his ear or his hands on his hips. Sometimes, he would hear the pantom calls of his name or smell the sweat that dripped from their bodies. At first, Mohinder had been disturbed by these remembrances, but after a while, he grew fond of them and enjoyed their persistance.

(----------)

Gabriel had imagined that he would become more courageous after being with Mohinder. But the Monday after the club, when Mohinder came to the coffee shop, Gabriel was glued to his seat, frozen by the walk of the Indian beauty that he had become so brave for. But when he tried to bring back that courage, it wouldn't show up. And so, Gabriel was returned to square one: watching from afar.

(----------)

Mohinder sometimes felt eyes on him whenever he went to get his daily coffee. He normally dismissed it as just being paranoia, but after the night with the stranger, he began to think otherwise.

(----------)

Gabriel had remembered the address of Mohinder's home and often spent time after work staring at his phone number in the Yellow Pages. He would remember everything that happened that faithful night. Sometimes, he would do things that he didn't remember doing while staring at the phone number. Normally, it was a male's natural reaction to the thoughts he was having. Sometimes, it would be just his mouth opening and drool coming out.

One time, he had actually picked up the phone and called the number he had memorized.

(----------)

"Hello?" Mohinder asked to the person on the other end of the line when the phone rang.

There was a pause, then the person on the other line finally answered, "Uh...uh...uh...hi?"

Mohinder blinked in rapid succession. "Uhm...Hello."

There was another pause. Then, "Uhm, how do you like the weather?"

Mohinder's brow furrowed. "Pardon?"

The phone line cut after that. Mohinder didn't give much thought to the strange phone call, though the voice on the other line would forever haunt him along with the memories of that night.

(----------)

Gabriel wanted to hit himself and praise himself at the same time.

He had called Mohinder!

He had _called_ Mohinder!

How brave was he?

How stupid was he?

How pleasant was the other man's voice?

How creeped out was the other man's voice?

He had called Mohinder...

Gabriel closed his eyes, his hands covering them, knocking aside his glasses.

If he had called Mohinder, than maybe he could do anything?

(----------)

Mohinder's first memory of Matt Parkman was of a bumbling, uncoordinated beat cop that wanted to be a little better than what his ex-wife saw him as. He was a dedicated adoptive father who moved from L.A. to a new life in New York. He was a friend-by-fluke of Nathan Petrelli's, and therefore a friend of Peter Petrelli, who was a friend of Mohinder Suresh. So he was a friend of a friend of a friend. By all precedences, they should have probably never met, and even if they did it should have been only once or twice.

But once turned to twice, twice turned into four times, four times turned into eight times, eight times turned into Matt and Mohinder kissing each other outside of a swell little bistro near Little Italy.

(----------)

Gabriel remembered, with the crushing pressure of depression, the sight of Mohinder the time he walked into the coffee shop with his boyfriend. They looked happy. And a little mismatched.

They were the same height, roughly. Mohinder, with his smooth dark skin, stood out against the other man's regualar peachy-white skin. Mohinder's frame was graceful, cat-like, absolutely beautiful. The other guy was...just...not anything like that.

Gabriel felt his sight blur from the tears. He bit his lower lip as he saw their hands tied together. Gabriel noticed that other people were staring. Either from the fact that gay couples were gawking fodder or because they just didn't belong together.

That got Gabriel thinking: if Mohinder would choose _that_ guy who might even degrade Mohinder's majesty, than what chance did Gabriel have? After all, Gabriel looked like the kind of guy who dressed up in elf ears and went to space conventions or has all the actions figures from the Star Wars Series. He wasn't spectacularly handsome. He wore the worst clothing ever. He couldn't last a day without calling his mommy. He spent half his time hunched over watch faces even though he swore he would never, ever be like that.

As Gabriel picked out each and every one of his own faults, he looked up and watched Mohinder and his new boyfriend. They were staring at each other so intently, so caringly. The other man had his hand casually touching Mohinder's arm.

And as Gabriel watched them, he began to think of all the good things that man must have or provide. He was probably charming, soft, gentle, maybe rich and prosperous and probably one hell of a lover.

And Gabriel...

Gabriel is...

Gabriel is...

Gabriel stood up, tears fighting for their release. He made his way to the door, his head tipped downwards. One last glance towards the happy couple in the corner was what broke the floodgates and what sealed Gabriel's fate.

(----------)

In a week, Matt Parkman won't remember the call the hysterical old woman put in the next day. He won't remember the scene of the self-inflicted gun-shot wound to the head in the library-esque apartment in Brooklyn. He won't remember the name of the man who had thought so little of life. He won't remember that none of the neighbors really knew the man or said that he was a loner. He won't remember that he had done the paperwork with as much grudge as he could muster, which was easy since it was paperwork.

All he'll remember is the smile on Mohinder's face when Matt walks through the door, Molly's joyous cry of "MATT!" and the wonderful smell of Mohinder's cury chili.

* * *

_And that's the end of the WDR series. I hope you liked it! See you in BO and PGSP!_

**--ac-the-brain-supreme**


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